“Perhaps I do, Miss des Forges. But don’t be angry. There’s still another way.” “Oh, yes! the third—and what is that?” “A miracle!” “Oh! you stupid. And Eleanor praised you ever so much.” “Well, you haven’t told me your cousin’s name yet. There may be still another, but it isn’t recorded in the books.” “And the heart of a certain young barrister in the Temple, sighing like hundreds of other young fellows for the chance so long a-coming, was made glad within a week from the dinner at the Temple by receipt of a ponderous parcel, bearing the Caistorholm postmark.” “And may I post it with my own hands, Mr. Beaumont?” “Come over to Caistorholm the day after tomorrow. The brief shall be ready then.” And if the saucy lips of Miss des Forges were pressed just above the words, “With you, Mr. Dryasdust, Q.C.,” was ever brief better endorsed. “I think you owe me a dance to-night, Miss des Forges.” “A dozen, if you like. But Eleanor will want some. Oh! do just cut in and shake that stupid George Wright out of his self-centred serenity. Estovers was the word, wasn’t it? Write it me down on a slip of paper, and I’ll give you any dance you ask for in exchange for it.” “You found a lot to talk about with Mr. Beaumont, Ethel,” said Miss St. Clair to the vivacious girl, as they awaited the gentlemen in the drawing-room. “He talks politics chiefly to me. But you wouldn’t look so radiant on politics. What was it all about?” “Oh! huggery!” said Ethel, gaily, and Miss St. Clair wondered mightily.